


Chiaroscuro

by practically_everyone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Requited Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/practically_everyone/pseuds/practically_everyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary undergoes some unforeseen complications with her pregnancy, leaving John to cope, and Sherlock, of all people, to help him. Hopefully this will soon become a (finished) multi-chaptered work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

" _Mary_ ,” John pleaded, grasping her hand with both of his more tightly as it slackened. Slowly, blearily, she shifted her gaze from a point on the ceiling, dropping her eyes until they fixed themselves onto John’s face.

“Mary, _please_ , hold on.” He said again, desperation seizing his body and constricting his throat as he willed her to do what she could not. She had tried so hard, gone through terrible pain, pain that John had not the slightest comprehension of, all in vain…  
Mary’s mouth twitched up in the barest ghost of a smile, and her tired eyes filled with love for him, and it was an expression that laid no blame. A faint whisper of breath escaped from her lips, fogging the oxygen mask.

“ _John,_ ” she whispered, the sound carried on a dying breath.

Then her eyes glazed over and her hand fell limp.  
The hushed voice of one of the nurses spoke into the sudden silence of the small room.

“I’ll call it. Time of death, 3:42 AM.”

There was not a single rustle. Then, at once, they quietly left the room, a nurse softly mentioning something about giving some privacy to John, whose tears had begun obscuring his vision, blurring everyone as they passed. The door glided shut, pulled by the last person, and closed with a click. With that sound, all the connections John had with the world outside broke, and nothing mattered but the woman that lay on the bed before him.

“ _MARY!_ ” He screamed, ripping her name from his chest as he allowed his full agony to finally overwhelm him. He buried his face into her chest and sobbed, hot tears burning his face and dissolving into her hospital gown. He screamed her name over and over, until it no longer made sense, until his voice gave out and until nothing but tortured, wild, animal noises escaped him. There was nothing, nothing. Nothing but he and this woman in the whole room, in the whole hospital, in the whole world. Nothing. She had left him.  
And she had taken their child with her.

John could not tell how long he stayed there, unmoved from his original position, dry sobs still racking his body after he had cried himself out. He dimly registered the door opening, heard footsteps crossing to him. A cautiously gentle hand was placed on this shoulder.

“John,” said the soft voice. He knew that voice. The hand on his shoulder slowly, tenderly, drew him off her, back into the chair positioned right next to the head of the bed. John opened his eyes and looked at her motionless form, then dropped his gaze to his own hand, unable to bear the sight any longer, and he was dimly surprised to see that he still held her hand in his. Another voice spoke to him through his haze of misery. A female, a nurse.

“Doctor Watson? John? You can’t do any thing else for her. We did all we could. You have to let her go…” John looked at the pale hand he held and realized that there really was no more hope, no more point in wishing. He laid her arm over her upper belly, and a fresh wave of tears threatened to blur his vision once more. Before what little resolve he had left him, he reached over with trembling fingers and closed her eyes.  
Then the tears spilled over, and he buried his face in his hands, and he let go of all of the hope left inside him, all of the excitement and fear and nervousness he had come here with. It was gone. It had left with Mary Watson.

When he finally, blearily, raised his head out of the sanctuary of his hands, he became aware of the presence still beside him. The hand was still on his shoulder, but it rested hesitantly, if a bit awkwardly. John lifted his head and blinked, trying to see the owner of the hand through puffy eyes. Sherlock stared down at him with a mixture of concern and alarm, studying him intently. He gently helped John stand and walked him slowly to the door. John looked back one more time, but the sight burned in his mind and he found himself turning abruptly away. Once they turned into the hallway, they paused, and Sherlock directed him into the chairs outside the room.

Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then closed it, frowning. He did this a few times before stuttering out, “Where - do you want to go?” John dimly remembered something about Sherlock not doing well in these types of situations.

Then the question hit him. Where would he go? He could not go home. Absolutely not. At his house, the house he shared with Mary, there was the bed he slept on with Mary, the crib they had set up two weeks ago, just to be prepared, there was still a note lying on the kitchen counter from Mary to John reminding him to get the shopping and that she loved him. He could not face that empty house tonight, nor ever, it seemed. The very thought drew him upright, and made his breath catch in his throat as his loss hit him full force a third time, but he had no more tears to cry, and his sides heaved with sobs as he collapsed again, and this time, he leaned against Sherlock’s shoulder as everyone dissipated around him.

By the time he was coherent again, Sherlock seemed to have made a decision for him, which was just as well, because John was heaving great shaky, breaths, unable to see or notice much around him, trying to get a grip on the situation but finding it impossible. Sherlock carefully stood him up again and was steering him out of Bart's, leading him into the cool London air, the familiar sounds of the city at night swirling in his ears, unrecognizable.

He supposed Sherlock hailed a cab, because next thing he was aware of, he was riding in a car, arms tucked into his sides, Sherlock speaking to him in low tones, not knowing or caring what he said, pain numbing his senses. John next registered the scent of the Baker street flat, Sherlock yelling something at Mrs. Hudson, her surprised and irritated tones, then shocked muttering and a scurrying of china while John was then ushered onto the couch upstairs. A warm cup of tea was directed into his uncooperative hands, and there was a gentle suggestion that he at least try to drink it.

John stared down at it, remembering that the hands holding the teacup held the hand of his wife not an hour ago...how long had it really been, he wondered? It didn't matter. It seemed as if it were a dream, a nightmare, and now, after waking, the memory spilled over into his waking dreams, haunting him and he was now floating somewhere in between hell and earth, and he might as well do something, anything, to get back to anyplace other than this...

John took a quivering sip of his tea, the liquid returning him, somewhat, to the physical world. It took him several tries to swallow, and it burned going down his raw throat. He realized, hazily, that he must be very dehydrated. Slowly, he finished his tea, sip by sip, and when he had finished with it, he was eventually coerced into a lying position, blankets draped over him. He didn't think he would ever fall asleep again, and even if he did, what good would it do anyway? John knew that there was nothing to prevent the nightmares now. He felt a hand on his arm, and he saw Sherlock watching him, a small crease between his eyes.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

A hard lump formed in John’s throat as Sherlock turned and left, and it was not until he heard Sherlock disappear into his bedroom that he managed to choke back, “Me, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

When John had called him to say that Mary had gone into labor, Sherlock was not surprised. He had seen them only a few days before at dinner, and he managed to deduce the arrival date within the first minute and a half. Simple, really.

Therefore, he had been expecting the alert, and was able to proceeded immediately to the hospital, sweeping through the halls until he reached the small room of the maternity ward. John was already inside, and he looked in only briefly to let John know of his presence, give his regards to Mary, and also to tell him that he would be remaining outside. Sherlock was unwilling to linger. Far too messy and tedious for him. He never had much interest or patience for ‘the Miracle of Life.’

Many hours later, Sherlock was getting bored. He had already deduced the incredibly tedious lives of the people waiting nervously around him outside other rooms (first time father, diabetic, pasta for dinner, fourth time father, second accidental child, an over-possessive grandmother with excessive debt, etc.) and now there was nothing to distract him from the muffled, yet increasingly shrill screams issuing from the wall behind him. A brief respite, then Mary uttered a particularly alarming cry, turning concerned heads in the direction of her room. Something was wrong. Sherlock heard it right away. There was a lot that could go awry in childbirth, and judging from the pitch and suddenness of Mary's latest scream, something had. Sherlock whirled out of his chair and wrenched open the door. “John!”

\--------------------------------------------------

He noticed too late. The signs had been there, of course, if he could have just _recognized_ them, put them together, Mary would be alive, and John would be happy. Inoperable internal bleeding and stillbirth. Even Sherlock realized how horrible the situation was. John’s reaction was nothing short of hysterics, and Sherlock was greatly disturbed to see him in such a state, torn to pieces. John was usually so steady, so level, but after all, he was human. Sherlock knew why John was reacting so strongly (or perhaps appropriately?): love.

He had married her, after all, and had been very happy at the thought of being a father. To Sherlock, a squalling infant unable to support itself that also consumed massive amounts of valuable attention easily put to better use elsewhere seemed like a perfectly undesirable thing. But John wanted one. He looked forward to having one.

Sherlock was truly sorry for Mary’s passing. material. rather clever, strong, fairly tolerable, and so important to John. An extraordinary woman, really, despite certain things.

But naturally, there were arrangements to be made. John was in hardly any condition to handle calls, taking only the ones from his parents, Harry, and his closer friends personally. Sherlock handled the rest. He made the arrangements for the funeral, adding details at John’s interjections. The funeral was small and private. John remained stiff, just standing, stoic but a little lost, greeting everyone but talking more extensively only to those who spoke to him. Sherlock tried to keep close to him, realizing John’s need for his presence; John looked around for him the few times Sherlock was not in his immediate line of vision. Once or twice John blinked furiously, when he clearly thought no one could see him. Sherlock supposed that he was right in doing so. Crying would simply illicit more displays of pity from his guests. Sherlock tried his best to not treat him the same way. Personally, he could not abide by pity and so in pity's stead Sherlock decided to provide John with a sense of normalcy.

However, Sherlock had to admit that he was fairly clueless in the area of expressions of genuine sympathy. He had gone to Lestrade for advice, acquiescing to the fact that Lestrade was probably better at the whole ‘condolences’ thing than he was, approaching him in his office one night after stopping down to Scotland Yard to pick up some cold case material.

"I have...erm, a question for you, before I go. About John, I mean. Ah, what do I...how do I...em-in my position, as it is, what-ah..." Sherlock broke off, suddenly unsure of how to convey what he wanted to know, a rare and unpleasant occurrence for him. Lestrade had paused, crossing his arms and eyeing him over. He had laughed nervously and shook his head before replying.

“I suppose this isn't easy for you Sherlock. Surely as hell this isn't easy for John…I wouldn't think that you have much experience in things like this – what to do and all.” Sherlock stood stock straight, expression rapt with attention. Lestrade sighed and unfolded his arms.

“John’s not going to be himself for quite a while. He needs time to recover, Sherlock. Do what you can for him, support him. You've already done a lot for him.”

“He will recover, won’t he?” The words slipped from Sherlock’s lips before he could stop them. _Childish_ , he admonished himself. Lestrade, however, smiled.

“You care for John more than I think he knows. Yes, Sherlock, he should be fine with time.”

Although Sherlock would not say so aloud, he was secretly delighted to be sharing 221b. with John again. It had been far too boring without him. And empty. For the first few months after he returned, it was painful to think of John when he was not there. Sherlock filled his days and nights with cases, but John, or rather the absence of John was always in the back of his mind, chewing at the edges and boring holes into his concentration. He had stuffed all of John’s remaining belongings into the old bedroom one day, unable to stand looking at them any longer.


	3. Chapter 3

“I have to go back to get my things,” John said, staring into his tea. Sunlight slanted through the smudged windows, illuminating the dusty air. Sherlock rummaged in the kitchen behind him as John sat in his chair. He had been doing much more cooking in the past three weeks, and was surprisingly good at it, despite a few cook fires. John supposed that he was happy for this newly professed ability; at first especially, he had simply been eating whatever Sherlock had laid in front of him at regular intervals. Sherlock stopped clattering about to listen to him.

“I can’t go on just using whatever I left over here, it’s not enough.” John swallowed.“If I’m going to be living here, I need my things.” Sherlock walked over to the sitting room and faced John, eyebrows drawn together.

“Do you want me to come with you?” He asked. John sighed almost imperceptibly; he needed Sherlock to come with him, but he hadn't quite wanted to ask him.

“Yes, Sherlock, I do,” John said, turning his attention back to his tea. John had been dreading this trip. He had been avoiding anything that reminded of Mary, which was difficult, because everything reminded him of Mary. And now he was going to their house. It was the first house he and Mary had bought and shared.

Sherlock arranged for Lestrade to help them cart the boxes of John's belongings back to Baker Street in his car, and in a moment of consideration flagged a taxi to save Lestrade a trip there. The cab ride seemed like the longest of John's life. Every rotation of the wheels brought him closer to the inevitable, going back into their house and seeing her there, every memory coming to life before his eyes. The only times John had actually slept recently was by accident, fearing the night when it came and the fatigue that threatened to wash over him and deliver him to Mary’s visage once more. He considered himself lucky to the point of genuinely blessed by some higher power when he awoke without any recollection of his dreams. However, John knew, he could just _sense_ that on this suburban street, all of his worst nightmares would come to life before his eyes….

He felt the cab jerk to a stop. Ice flooded John’s veins. He was barely aware of Sherlock turning his head toward him.

“Are you ready?” His voice was unusually gentle. John tore his gaze away from the house, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. They searched him, deducing, calculating, and looking for his emotions as they had often been doing during the past few weeks. John drew a shuddering breath.

“Let’s go.” Something flickered in Sherlock’s face, a fleeting expression of something John could only describe as tenderness, and then Sherlock was sweeping out the door of the cab, holding the door open and closing it after John. The ice disappeared from John’s limbs to be replaced with a rapid heat, blood pounding in his ears. Walking up to this house was far harder than attacking enemy lines, he decided. He reached the door before Sherlock did, and opened it, and his heart left his chest to beat in his throat. John fixed his gaze to his shoes as he stepped inside.

He took another deep breath and looked up. Mary was everywhere. She was there, laughing on the stairs, lounging on the couch, cooking dinner at the stove, struggling to put her shoes on, making fun of him, laughing, yelling, crying, talking - She swirled around John, essence seeping into his every orifice and driving out the memory of everything else.

“Oh, God.” _Fucking hell_. His heart jumped into his mouth and he fell apart, leaning into Sherlock as he cried and it was like losing her for the first time all over again. His shaking sobs slowly subsided into dry gasps after a time, and John slowly became aware that Sherlock had put his arms around him gingerly. For a while he simply stayed there, appreciating the curious safety and novelty of the gesture, grasping the back of Sherlock’s coat in response and trying to pull himself together enough to look around once more.

John could not really remember how exactly he managed to collect all his things, tears leaking out at the memory of certain times they had shared, Sherlock keeping him moving throughout the small house, collecting items that he had completely forgotten to pick up, placing his things in boxes, loading them into Lestrade’s car, and carrying them up the stairs where they lay stacked on the floor of their flat. John huffed, laying his hands on a box, making to unpack it, but suddenly he could not bear keeping his heart within his chest any longer.

“What am I going to do, Sherlock? I can’t get her out of my head!” John burst out. He looked desperately at Sherlock, and their eyes locked together. “Everything I do, it’s just - _her_. And…” He broke off. He felt helpless, and he gripped the box harder in order to remain in control. “What is left here for me?” John swayed a bit now, still firmly clasped to Sherlock’s gaze; indeed, he felt as if it were the only thing holding him up now. He saw Sherlock tense a little, and a fleeting look of desperation and fear passed from his eyes to John. John finally dropped his head down to the box, and gripped tightly between his hands without really seeing it. He heard Sherlock’s shoes scuff lightly on the carpet as Sherlock took a few steps closer, stopping barely two feet away from him.

“You still have me, John,” his voice was raspy, baritone somewhat constricted. John looked sideways at him, pressing his lips together in a line. For the first time in weeks, he realized he didn’t know how any of this could be impacting Sherlock. He didn’t give Sherlock’s recent actions much thought, just vague, brief moments of appreciation that he didn’t fully take time to recognize or mention to him. Without Sherlock, he realized, it would have taken him a lot longer to get out of the hospital in the first place, even longer to end up back at Baker Street, he didn’t even want to consider how he would have handled the funeral, and who knows how long it would have taken him to work up the courage to visit their house again. Sherlock had propped him up through all of it; a surprisingly steady sense of normalcy, if normal is a word that can be applied to Sherlock Holmes.

John looked at Sherlock, and fully wondered at him. He remembered how he could not bear going back into Baker Street after The Fall, instead having Mrs. Hudson collect his things for him, knowing for certain that the one thing he could not do was to walk into this flat. It was two years before he could go in again, once he thought he had moved on, and let Sherlock and the life they had together go. It was incredible, really, that with Sherlock with him he was able to find the strength to enter Mary’s house again. John felt his face soften as he regarded Sherlock in a fresh light.

“Yes, yes, Sherlock, I still have you.” They unpacked the boxes in relative quiet, Sherlock remembering where each item used to go around the flat at taking great care to replace it there. After a few hours, John had to agree that the place was finally looking like home again. A few boxes still lay upstairs in his bedroom, but other than that, it was practically back to the way it always was. John surveyed his room, drinking it in. He had missed this life, he knew it. The heart-pumping chases, the touch-and-go skirmishes, being held at gunpoint, holding others at gunpoint, dangerous, but it was all what he lived for. He had felt restless sometimes, had little outbursts when he lived in the suburbs because he simply couldn't handle the confinement -sometimes he felt as though if he stayed a minute longer it would rise up and suffocate him-

John sat down on the bed, back to the single window twinkling with restless, shifting lights and put his face in his hands. He missed her. He loved her and missed her and he knew he always would. He missed sharing his life with her. But that was no longer an option. John knew he had to be realistic about the situation, and now was as good time as any to face this…He breathed deep, letting the air out slowly. _You have to move on. Let them go. Life again with Sherlock…it will be fine. It brought you back after the war and it will help you again. You've missed this and him, more than you care to admit, better not deny it. Mary is gone but you have to get on with your life…or it will get on without you. She would not want you to be stuck feeling sorry all the time, she would want you to move on. I have to move on…_

“John! There’s a bit of a fire in the kitchen and I acquire your assistance! John!” Sherlock yelped from downstairs. John lifted his head and smiled a bit in spite of himself. _No, normal is not the word,_ he decided. But he found that he didn't actually care.

“What have you done now?” He called back, springs vocalizing their objection as he got off the bed to fetch the fire extinguisher.


End file.
